


Canem et Lupum

by arthurwhoregan



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Multi, No spoilers for canon or my own story find out for urselves, No spoilers uwu, Supernatural Elements, Will tag more characters when they appear. I hate when people flood tags. Also
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 19:04:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17534498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthurwhoregan/pseuds/arthurwhoregan
Summary: Wolves protect the pack. They guard the young and feed the elderly. They respect their leader, whichever one they choose. And they love them. Then again, so do dogs.





	Canem et Lupum

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Richard (@epiccowboygamer) who helped me reach my full horny potential. 
> 
> Talk to me about this @31_BCE on twitter.

IT HAD BEEN almost two months since the mountains, where Arthur had found john bleeding out and desperate amongst red snow and rock. Now with the family finding solace in Horseshoe Overlook, he watched the young man from across the camp, softly blowing on his black coffee. Arthur took in how physically well the young outlaw looked, considering that John had been mauled almost to death by a pack of starving wolves. His scars were healing nicely, carved so deep into his face you could feel where the flesh was missing; but that right there was the problem. Arthur could not help but notice just how quickly and just how nicely those wounds  _ were _ healing. He had seen plenty of cuts and wounds nowhere near as bad, yet they never looked half as good as what John’s did. Physically, the man was in tip top shape. Aside from the moaning and complaining and the ‘oh please feel sorry for me’ victim complex Marston had going, he was stronger than ever. That bothered Arthur some, but what bothered him more was that John was never truly the same after the attack. Of course, John had always been a little mangy. Never really bathed and stunk like a wet dog most days if you got too close, but there was something that concerned Arthur more. John acted a little too skittish or snapped at people a little too often. Even Abigale had gotten the wrong end of the stick when it came to her conversations with John.

Arthur couldn’t help but notice the change in Marston, but it seemed that he was the only one who did.

Downing the last dregs of coffee, he turned east and watched the setting sun. The bright reds and orange made the old cowboy feel uneasy. It sure was beautiful, but a sky like that was a bad omen to him, as if God had spilt blood across the world. Something was coming and Arthur could not place it.

“Arthur! Arthur!” Abigale called out, clutching her dress as she ran across camp, her face a mix of frustration and worry. Jack trailed after his mother, teary eyed and red nosed.

Arthur stood up from the dried log, and put a rough, firm hand on the distraught woman.

“What happened. Did someone hurt you or the boy?” Looking down at the whimpering Jack hiding behind Abigale.

“John did! Did you not see or hear for yourself, you was right here!”

Arthur shook his head in slight embarrassment. He had been so caught up in his own thoughts about John, he had not paid attention to the real thing. Everyone was always yelling about something these days, and he learnt it was best to just try and ignore it.

“The bastard yelled at the both of us for tryin’ to give him some clean clothes and dinner. Hell, he even bared his teeth at us like- like a damn dog! Nearly hit Jack here too, scared him half to death!”

Abigale was angry and distraught, and for good reason too.

“That ain’t like him. He ain’t never been violent like that before. Not even when the dumb thing’s drunk” Arthur finally replied, frowning all the while.

This truly sounded out of sorts for John. He wasn’t doing right by his family in general, but he’d never been violent towards them. John had never been violent to any one of Dutch’s Boys. Something was wrong, and that uneasy feeling returned with twice the punch.

“I’ll go talk to him, knock some sense into that half a brain of his. You two just stay away, alright?” Arthur instructed, squeezing Abigale’s shoulder. He had always cared for her, one way or another.

“He’s gone into the forest, says he needs to think about things, whatever that means.” Abigale said bitterly, taking the sniffling Jack into her arms.

Arthur nodded and started to walk forward, away from the sun and the bleeding sky.  
  
  


* * *

 

“John! John Marston! Get out here you coward!”

Arthur felt like Abigale except less shrill, with all his angry yelling. The sun was down and had been for three hours. Replacing the red was the infinite expanse of space, with its diamond like stars scattered and sparkling. The full moon shone down, its rays filtering between the pine trees disconcertingly. The restless feeling in Arthurs gut grew like a seed, sprouting its roots and burying deep within his belly.

“Where the hell are you, Marston.” Arthur muttered to himself as he lifted his lantern to light the way.

Arthur continued to walk further and further from the campsite, staying as quiet as possible. It almost felt as if he was tracking an animal. If John was hiding from him, he was doing a damn good job, that’s for sure. This would have taken half the time if Arthur had of thought to bring Charles along. The trees around Horseshoe Overlook were thicker than most places Arthur had been, except maybe Tall Trees. They were tight together, too tight for a horse to manoeuvre its way through. He took note of that and continued to track John with what little evidence he had. A few broken branches from an obvious stagger here and there, but nothing solid. Footprints were everywhere, of all shapes and sizes and most likely from members changing shifts, so much so that they became too hard to differentiate. Arthur would have never admitted it either, but an hour into trying to find the man he simply started to wander aimlessly. He would have to stumble across John eventually. When Arthur did find something more than collateral damage, he crouched down and tilted his head, puzzled. It was John’s black denim jacket, something Arthur knew he would not have dropped without a fight. The man had it since he had been a kid, after all. Oversized for a twelve-year-old, but it was the first real thing he owned. Arthur picked it up and looked it over. Not so much as a rip from a fight or scuffle but more that it was simply slumped off. He draped it over his worn leather satchel and continued his path west.

“What in the hell are you up to, Marston…”

The old outlaw knew he was far from the camp, or at least in an unfamiliar part of the surroundings. He had either strayed too far, or the eerier night disorientated the poor thing. Cold mist started to roll in through the trees, filling up the ground like a quiet flood. It was another hour before tiredness and irritability set in. Arthur just wanted to go back, to curl up in his bed and sleep, but Abi would have killed him before he got the chance. He sighed and continued to roam through the trees. It was only when the hairs on the back of Arthurs neck prickled up, that his alertness came back. Arthur had no idea what time it was or where he had ended up. Somewhere with thick brambles and looming trees that seemed to stretch forever upwards. A howl rang through the pine forest, unbearably loud. He didn’t know why he was so surprised; a few feral wolves were nothing he couldn’t handle, and he was in their territory after all.

“Shit.” Arthur spat, rushing to tie his lamp to the leather cord of his bag as the howling became louder.

It sounded unlike anything he had heard before. Whatever was making that noise was not just loud, but it was deep, as if it were pissed off.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Arthur kept hissing to himself, loading the rifle as fast as shaking hands could.

Maybe it was a bad idea to have gone off alone without telling anyone, but how was he to know there was a maddened animal running rampage or that he was to grow so tired he ended up lost. It was probably a good thing however, for Arthur to find out. Can’t have something so terrible lurking within the shadowy fringe of the encampment.  

More noises shot through the air like the cracking of a whip, but this time they were different. Shrieks and yelps of distress mixed with guttural growling and bone snapping put Arthur on edge. He was in danger, there was no doubt about it.

“Shit. Shit. Shit! Shit!” Gritting his teeth tightly.

Whatever was out there, it was bigger than any dog Arthur knew of. Three grey, crying wolves ran straight past him without a second glance. Something had scared them off, and not many things could do that. A bear, maybe. The thing was, was that bears did not howl.

“John! Wherever you are, you better get out of here quick smart. Come help me put whatever this thing is down!” Arthur shouted, angry and anxious.

“Goddamn it, Marston…”

The snarling had gotten louder again. The sound of tree branches cracking under weight reached Arthurs ears, but he could not figure out where it came from.

There. He saw them. Two glowing eyes in the middle of darkness. Not even the full moon was shedding any light on the beast in full, only reflected against the eyes in the distance.  

“Found you… you son of a bitch…”, his finger itched to pull the trigger.

What Arthur saw next, he could not explain, not through sketch nor writing, because before the cowboy could even raise his trusted rifle and aim square between the eyes, it was already upon him. Running at full speed, as fast as a horse but with the agility of a couger. It dodged every pine and birch tree in its path snarling visciously as it did so, leaving a train of broken branches and scarred bark. It was a creature so comparable to a wolf one might think it was, from a distance. Instead, the size of it was at least twice that of Arthur, and could run with two or four of its limbs. The yellow of its eyes were even more piercing than they had been in the darkness yards away. Black, matted fur covered most of it, cascading in thick, greasy strands down from the head. Quickly noting where skin showed such as the palms and the chest, Arthur tried to comprehend what it was. It was human, but it also most certainly was not, and to that Arthur was speechless.  The rifle frozen in his hands from simply being stunned. All of this was taken in in a matter of moments before the beast barrelled Arthur to the ground, pinning his arms to the cold forest floor, the gun scattering off to the side. Arthur yelped, the wind being knocked out of him within seconds and laid prone, his fall disturbing the cold mist. Struggling under the intense weight and strength of this man-wolf, Arthur could feel its hot, foul-smelling breath all over his face, and drool that dripped from savage fangs. Its human-like fingers curling around his biceps, piercing skin and drawing blood. Arthur winced at the pain, but not a sound escaped his quivering lips. It was snarling at him, the snout wrinkled in distain. Arthur almost wanted to shut his eyes and look away, or to lash out and yell and fight his way free. Instead, the only thing he could do was stare with morbid curiosity. He felt like a buck that had finally been caught by a predator, stunned by the impact of its mauling. Arthur may have set out to find John, but perhaps it was he who had really been the prey. The beast sniffed up and down Arthurs face and torso, as if to get the scent of its meal.  
  
“Go on, you mangy mutt. Get it over with.” Arthur finally managed to croak out with what little air was getting into his lungs, what with the near seven-foot creature crushing his frame.  
  
Arthur had to admit, if this was the way he was going to die, that was okay. Better than all the sorry folk dying of tuberculosis anyway. The hulking mass of fur and fang however, dropped its snarl at Arthurs voice, or perhaps even at the smell of him. Perhaps it was both. Or perhaps it was how the beast seemed perplexed at the denim jacket slumped over the leather satchel, as if it had memory of it.  _ You remember the jacket, huh? You killed John? Is that it? Go on then, I want to see what hell is like. At least I’ll have company,  _ Arthur thought to himself, adrenaline overtaking any sort of sudden grief.  
It stared at him silently, aside from its heavy panting, and Arthur stared in turn, waiting for death. Its weight on Arthur never changing, but the hatred slowly dissipated from its face. Caution and weariness still plagued the beast, but whatever loathing it had for outlaw had left. Caution, weariness, curiosity and a hint of fear is what Arthur could see clouding its wide eyes. He noticed again the hair like fur falling from its head, ears twitching, listening to everything around them. Its yellowed eyes shifting at every small movement from trees and rodents, but always falling back onto Arthur with intensity, and the black denim. Morgan was more confused than anything, at the fact it stopped its attack. Was he already dead and  _ this _ was hell? Being stuck forever under whatever this thing was? Dead or alive, Morgan noticed something that bothered him even more than his own death. The scars that adorned the beast, they were deep, and red. Carved so deep into its face one could feel where the flesh was missing. Arthur knew those scars too well for it to be a coincidence.

 

“Well I’ll be damned… Marston, is that you?”


End file.
